


Abstraction

by ofplanet_earth



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abstract titles, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art Dealer Thranduil, Artist Bard, Comfort Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Gallery Owner Thranduil, M/M, Past Violence, Self-Conscious Bard, Smitten Bard, author does not know how to title, author is a shameless piece of shit, i guess, or summarize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-15 23:04:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5803795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shit. Shit shit shit. Bard was going to change his number, flee the country and never once look back.</p><p>Thranduil Oropherion, sole heir to his father's vast fortune, independent art dealer and <i>owner</i> of the fucking <i>Lasgalen Art Gallery</i> now thought Bard was a complete and utter idiot. </p><p>Of course, he was too bloody polite to say as much to Bard's face, and he was entirely too professional to let something like Bard's idiocy get in the way of a business transaction, but Bard wasn't sure he could ever see the man again. Not when he'd spent an entire hour stuttering and trying not to stare at the shine of Thranduil's hair and the angle of his nose and the elegant lines of his fingers as they traced the rim of his mug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoveActuallyFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/gifts).



> for my wonderful friend LoveActuallyFan who asked me on 12 January (I know because I scrolled through two weeks' worth of chat), "Do you wanna write a piece where Thrandy is an uppity art dealer and Bard is a scraggly, super talented artist?" 
> 
> well, it's been thirteen days and I haven't written half of what I wanted to. I have no excuse for myself except to say that my attention is easy to claim but difficult to hold on to. also, work is awful but sleep is good.  
> so thank you for being a constant source of support, inspiration, beautiful art, and ass-kicking ♡
> 
> cover art is courtesy of [plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com)! she's available for commissions if you're interested in having a piece made!

[](https://imgur.com/LvLcKQj)

It started with a phone call. Private number. Bard thought about ignoring it— thoughts of his overdrawn bank account, past due electric bill and defaulted student loans churning his stomach just at the sound of his ringer. 

In the end, curiosity got the better of him. 

"Yes hello, I'm looking for a… Bard Bowman?" The man's voice was smooth and lofty, his accent the very definition of posh. Bard could practically see the designer suit and the silk tie and the Christopher Ward watch. He thought about hanging up, about offering some line about a wrong number and just switching his mobile to silent. 

But he sighed and replied, "You've got him," instead. 

"Ah, good. My name is Thranduil Oropherion. I've just been chatting with Gandalf Greyhame; I hope you don't mind that he gave me your number." 

"I do mind, actually. This is a private line and I'd appreciate it if—" 

"Forgive me," The man interrupted, though Bard got the distinct impression that he was not the least bit repentant. He also got the funny feeling this man had never been heard the word _no_ before and, while Bard would have loved to be the first person to do so, he only grit his teeth and remained silent. "It's just that Gandalf seemed to be under the impression that you were looking for work. You are an artist, yes?" 

"Well yes," Bard stuttered, floundering and completely embarrassed by the petulant tantrum he'd been about to throw. "It's just that I'm not exactly, erm… that is I'm not—" 

"I've seen some of your earlier pieces and I have to say, I'm quite impressed." 

That… okay, that caught Bard's attention. "Sorry?" He opened the fridge for no other reason than to give his hands something to do. He pulled a beer from the rack even though it was barely past three in the afternoon. 

"Gandalf was kind enough to share some of your portfolio with me." 

"My portfolio from Uni?" 

"The very same. Incredibly emotive and quite raw, and yet I found it to be rather sophisticated. It's exactly the kind of work I've been searching for." 

Bard took a deep swig of his ale and lets those words sink in a bit. Sophisticated. Emotive. There was a point in his life when he'd have given anything to receive praise like that. Now, it made him wary. "So… what? What is it you want, Mister…" 

"Oropherion. But please, call me Thranduil." 

"Right," Bard's lips curled slightly at the stench of aristocracy that oozed from his mobile. It smelled of money— of cash in his wallet— something he'd been sorely lacking and so he decided to play nice. "So you're saying you saw photos of my old work and now you want to… to what, hire me?" 

"I want to display your work. To show it to collectors and buyers." _God_ , but if that wasn't music to Bard's reluctant, disbelieving ears. He huffed a harsh laugh and swallowed down another gulp of his beer. "Your talent is undeniable," Thranduil continued. "Downright impressive, I'd say, considering you were only twenty when you painted those pieces." 

"Look," Bard sighed. "I'm sorry if Gandalf misled you but— my work back then was… well anyway. I lost it all and I don't think I could recreate it." 

"No, no of course not! I couldn't ask that of you. I'm interested in something new. Some original work. Your return will be dependant upon the sale price of course, but I am confident we can both walk away with a profit." 

"Are you having a laugh?" 

"I assure you, I am quite serious." 

"That's an awful lot of faith to put in a man after seeing just a couple pictures of eight-year-old paintings. I haven't even picked up a brush in years, let alone produced anything marketable." 

"Mister Bowman—" 

"Bard." 

"Bard. I don't expect that I'll convince you right away. I'd like to meet in person, if you're agreeable. There's a gallery downtown. Lasgalen. Do you know it?" 

"Yeah, 'course I know it." 

"Excellent. There's a small café just across the street. Shall we say noon tomorrow?" 

Bard could only stutter in response but Thranduil seemed to take that as a yes, because the line went dead while Bard still held his mobile to his ear. 

Well, shit. 

{ }

After cracking open his second beer of the afternoon, still reeling from the news that someone wanted to display and sell his work, Bard had googled Thranduil Oropherion. Granted, it had taken him a few tries to spell the name right, but even then, there wasn't much to find. Nothing recent, anyway. 

If Bard had ever asked himself _what kind of person has their own wikipedia page_ , he now knew. Thranduil's father has his own wikipedia page. Apparently, he owned one of the largest banks in the UK before his death some ten years ago. The next question: what does a man do with an inheritance of half a billion pounds? Commission amateur artists out of the blue, apparently. 

The suit-and-tie image Bard's imagination had conjured didn't seem to be far from the mark. He’d found photos from a few events— dinners, galas and the like— but none that were dated within the last five years. Whatever Thranduil actually did these days, google didn't know about it. 

Bard arrived outside the Lasgalen Gallery at quarter to noon. _Do you know it?_ Pompous arse. It was one of the largest independent galleries in the country. Even so early in the day, the streets were crowded with tourists peeking through the front window. Bard kept his eye out for Thranduil— the photos he'd been able to find were small and grainy, but they showed a man with a lean build and blond hair, nearly white even under the warm light of ballroom chandeliers. 

No one stood out among the crowd, and so Bard ordered a flat white, took a seat in the corner of the café, and pulled out his mobile. He'd googled himself after exhausting the limited results of his search on Thranduil, just to see what there was to find. The answer: an old article from his university paper on his feature piece at a local gallery, links to his disused facebook and linkedin profiles, and an article on the fire. 

He'd closed his browser with a scowl, flipped his laptop closed and gone to the fridge for a third beer. 

He scrolled through his email, navigating through the apps on his mobile without paying attention to a single pixel, biding his time until a shadow fell over his table. "Ahem,"

Bard wasn't sure what he'd been expecting— a three-piece suit would have been a bit pretentious for a coffee meeting at noon on a Sunday— but he was surprised to see a man in jeans and a plain T-shirt standing before him. He had no doubt the jeans were designer and that they were tailored to perfection— honest to god _perfection_ — he might as well have worn a suit for how underdressed Bard felt in his presence

Thranduil was tall— he towered over Bard where he sat— and the legs inside those jeans just never seemed to end. Bard felt his mouth go dry as his gaze continued upwards. There was a red scarf wrapped around his long neck, contrasting his pale skin and the defined structure of his jaw beautifully. His hair was long and straight, sliding over his shoulders like an avalanche. 

Google didn't do him justice. 

"Bard Bowman?" 

"Uh," Bard cleared his throat, praying to whatever power was available to listen that he didn't look like as big of a twat as he felt. "Yeah," 

"May I sit?" 

"Oh! Yeah! Um— of course." Bard sat up straight and slid his coffee closer to make room on the table, though there had been plenty of room before. Thranduil swept his hair over one shoulder as he sat, angling away from the window and crossing one leg over the other. The sun peeked through the gloomy clouds outside and slanted over his cheekbones, highlighting every graceful movement of his body, precise and polished and…

"Perfect." 

"Sorry?" 

"What?" Bard started.

"Well I think you said—"

"Oh! No, sorry!" My mind's, uh…” Bard shook his head, “elsewhere." He picked up his coffee and swallowed thickly, pointedly ignoring the tilt of Thranduil's head and the smirk on his lips. And he definitely wasn’t staring at the way his blazer hugged his broad shoulders, or the way his T-shirt stretched _just so_ over the muscles of his chest.

{ }

Shit. Shit shit shit. Bard was going to change his number, flee the country and never once look back. 

Thranduil Oropherion, sole heir to his father's vast fortune, independent art dealer and _owner_ of the fucking _Lasgalen Art Gallery_ now thought Bard was a complete and utter idiot. Of course, he was too bloody polite to say as much to Bard's face, and he was entirely too professional to let something like Bard's idiocy get in the way of a business transaction, but Bard wasn't sure he could ever see the man again. Not when he'd spent an entire hour stuttering and trying not to stare at the shine of Thranduil's hair and the angle of his nose and the elegant lines of his fingers as they traced the rim of his mug. 

Not when Bard had blushed— _blushed_ like a bloody fucking schoolgirl— when Thranduil had stood to shake his hand. 

But what was he supposed to do? Turn down a ridiculously generous offer and a completely amazing opportunity, the likes of which he would likely never have again? No. Bard could admit he was desperate, but he was _not_ some teenager with a crush. He could conduct himself like the grown man he was supposed to be. He could— he _would_ refrain from swooning the next time he found himself in Thranduil Oropherion's presence. 

If he could ever bring himself to leave his flat again. 

Bard stopped at a supply shop downtown before he caught the tube home. He stood before rows of paints and brushes and canvases, balking a bit at just how high prices had climbed in the years since he'd last purchased supplies. He bit his lip and shelled out the cash, then lugged it all across town and up three flights of stairs. 

He filled an old mug with water, set a small canvas against the cushion of his sofa— because he simply _could not_ afford to replace the easel he'd lost, no matter how he might try to justify it. Then he sat. And he stared. 

This was a terrible idea. The blank canvas was taunting him. The paintbrush felt foreign and clumsy in his hand, and he could think of nothing besides his disastrous coffee date— meeting! Coffee _meeting_ — the arch of Thranduil's eyebrow when Bard had made an arse of himself by asking Thranduil to repeat yet _another_ question. 

Christ.

He turned away from the empty canvas and sat at his desk, turned on some music and pulled out an old sketchbook. He dug out a pencil from the drawer of his desk, turned the music up louder, and he began to draw. 

Lines. That's all a sketch was: lines. Bard could draw lines, no matter how long it had been since he'd last tried. And he was doing well. Well enough anyway, until he paused to brush hair away from his eyes and realized what it was he'd been working on. 

It was a house. A cottage, really, with slatted shutters on the windows left open to flap in the breeze. A house on stilts, standing tall above the shore of a restless and familiar lake. 

No. Bard wasn't going to peel back that scab. Not now. Not when he finally stood to make a living beyond the meagre salary waiting tables offered him. Not when he'd just been handed the opportunity of a lifetime— the chance to show at the _Lasgalen_ , god. Bard could not mess this up.

He pushed back his chair and crossed the small flat to open the fridge. He'd need to sell a painting just to pay for the ale it would take him to get through this. Beer in hand, he paced back to turn the music up another four notches, old Mister Titus down the hall and his precious quiet be damned. 

He picked the canvas up from its place on the couch, sat down with it perched on his knees, and tried again. He stayed away from straight lines and angles this time, starting instead with a swoop and a curve that ran nearly the length of the small canvas. Bard could paint without picking at old wounds. He had to. As long as he stayed away from that house, far away from that lake and the memories attached to it, he'd be fine. 

And surprisingly, he was. 

He gave it hardly any thought when he swapped his dulled pencil out for a brush, still fresh and clean from the packaging. It felt as though barely a day had passed since he last spiked open a fresh tube of paint. He began with broad strokes of colour: grey and red and white and brown. It was crude work— nowhere near the _emotive and sophisticated_ work Thranduil had praised him for— but Bard was rusty and at least it was something. 

When the album Bard had set to repeat looped around and began again, he looked up to find the world had grown dark outside his flat. God, he'd missed this— being so immersed in something that he lost track of time. Maybe this would work out after all. 

He downed what was left of his beer as he crossed through the kitchen on his way to the loo. Bard showered, his mind blissfully, contentedly blank but for the renewed memory of the smooth drag of brush against fabric and the sharp smell of acrylic. He let the hot water ease the tension from his shoulders, built up after hours of slouching on the couch. He'd have to spring for a new easel if he kept this up. 

The thought left him giddy as he settled down beneath his duvet.

{ }

The next day dawned dim and grey. It was nearly eleven in the morning when Bard finally dragged himself out of bed and put the kettle on. He dressed in his black slacks and white button up, the muscles in his arm and his back protesting as he stretched. The kettle whistled and he popped some bread in the toaster, about to pour water into his mug when he realized there was paint splashed along the rim and brushes were soaking in mirky brown water. 

He groaned, pulled another mug from the sink, and began to scrub. The toaster popped as he poured his tea and he frowned: burned. To a crisp. If he ever managed to properly toast a piece of bread with this thing he'd consider it a miracle. He smeared on a heap of extra peanut butter to cover up the char, and he chewed as little as possible before swallowing.

He leaned against the counter for a moment, eyes wandering towards the desk in the living room, wondering if he dared chance a look at the painting he'd left there. It was nowhere up to par, he knew, and he worried his critical eye would squash any forward momentum he’d built up. 

Sod it. Bard couldn't stand the suspense. He strode across the kitchen, burned toast in hand, and stepped around the couch. He tried to think, to remember what it was he'd painted the night before, but it was just a blur of old routines and the blissful thoughtless blank that used to be so familiar. Now it only unnerved him as he approached the desk, the canvas slowly coming into focus. Oh, Bard was in so much— 

"Shit!" He spat. There, beside his computer, on top of his old sketch pad, was a portrait. Bard frowned, mentally tearing the image to shreds. The lines were broad and brutish where they ought to be delicate. The light was a mess— the highlights and shadows haphazard and disparate. The perspective was absolute shit and he'd gotten the colour of the eyes all wrong. It was raw, definitely. Emotive… perhaps, if he were to squint. But it definitively lacked in any sort of sophistication.

If Bard were in a more rational frame of mind, he might have conceded that no portrait could be painted well without a model or a reference. But Bard was not in a rational frame of mind. He was frantic, self-deprecating and inexorably self-conscious. 

Unpracticed and artless though it may be, there was no mistaking just whose face Bard was staring at: Thranduil's. So much for not acting like a teenager with a crush— this was the equivalent of scribbling _Mr. Bard Oropherion_ in the margins of his notebooks. This was a glorified— and very expensive— daydream doodle. Bard was blushing for christ sake! 

Without another glance at the painting on his desk, Bard flew from his flat. He slammed the door behind him, only to wrestle it open again when he realized his keys and coat were still inside. Snatching them up, he locked the door and bounded down the stairs, grumbling and crossing his arms over his chest when he realized he hadn't drunk his tea. 

Fuck the tea. Fuck his miserable attempt at recapturing the creativity he'd lost sight of years ago. Fuck Thranduil for— no, don't fuck Thranduil. That was exactly what he _shouldn't_ be thinking of with a full eight hours of dealing with the public ahead of him. 

Bard pushed through the doors of the restaurant a full ten minutes early, mumbling a hello to Tauriel where she was already prepping raw ingredients for the line. "And a good morning to you, too."

"Is Alfrid in yet?" 

"Is that a serious question?" Tauriel glanced at him over her shoulder, spinning her knife deftly between her fingers. 

"Careful with that thing," Bard winced and turned away, reaching to pull a mug and teabag from the shelf.

"Oh, boo. What's got your knickers in a twist so early?" 

"Nothing," Bard grumbled, far too quickly to be believed, much less by Tauriel. "Perceptive little—" 

"Oi," she shouted, pointing her finger down the length of her blade in Bard's direction. "You watch your mouth or I'll give you a demonstration of just what else I can do with these knives." 

"Now who's got their knickers in a twist?" 

"Still you. Now, help me with the prep. We open in an hour and I'm behind on just about everything." 

"You know, you could threaten Alfrid at knifepoint. Get him down here to help in the mornings." 

"I could," Tauriel agreed, setting aside a bowl of onions and cracking a clove of garlic beneath her knife. "But then I'd have to listen to him whine. And besides, he might think I was flirting with him. I prefer my coworkers do something other than stare at my bum.” 

Bard laughed and began slicing carrots two at a time. “Glad I meet your rather low standards.” 

“Sod off,” Tauriel laughed. “Hand me that chicken. Finish with the veg and tell me all about what’s put you in such a foul mood.” 

Bard sighed and did as he was told. He’d end up spilling to her anyway. Might as well get it over with.

“It started off with a phone call,”


	2. Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was crazy. Absolutely fucking crazy. How had this become Bard’s life? How had he gone from keeping to himself at his minimum wage job and barely managing to stay out of trouble with management, to ignoring phone calls from rich and beautiful men who wanted to sell his art?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew, okay. finally, here we are. it's been over a month since this AU was dropped in my lap, and it's spent every moment of that time nagging me incessantly to write it. 
> 
> I think I have it all down, though, so enjoy!

This was crazy. Absolutely fucking crazy. How had this become Bard’s life? How had he gone from keeping to himself at his minimum wage job and barely managing to stay out of trouble with management, to ignoring phone calls from rich and beautiful men who wanted to sell his art? 

Things like this didn’t just _happen_ , and yet here he was, on the clock, huddled in the corner of the kitchen and trying to muffle the noise of his ringing mobile. This was the third day in a row Bard had ignored such a call, and the third day in a row he’d refused to listen to the voice message. Last night he’d sat down with a paintbrush and a blank canvas, only to stand up hours later and find yet another portrait of Thranduil. 

It was madness. Complete fucking madness; it had to stop. But how could Bard tell Thranduil that he couldn’t produce any pieces for his show? How was he supposed to tell the man that every time he tried to paint something, it ended up being _his face?_

His beautiful, serene, perfect face...

Fuck. 

Finally, his mobile stopped ringing. Bard sighed with relief just in time to see Alfrid waltzing around the corner. Bard stuffed his mobile back into his pocket and hurried to act like he was doing something useful. Instead he wound up dropping a wine glass, watching helplessly as it shattered on the tile floor. 

“Bard!” Alfrid had him in his sights and was barreling straight in his direction. 

Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit fuck. “I know, I’m sorry, I’ll—” 

“This is your second accident in a week, Bard! We pay you to wait tables, not to act like a clumsy git and break the glassware!” 

“I know, I’ll pay for it, I just—”

“Damn right you’ll pay for it! It’s coming straight out of your paycheck, just like the last— What is that?” Alfrid snapped. Bard’s mobile had chosen that moment to signal with a cheerful chirp that Bard had a new voice message. Alfrid’s eyes were reduced to slits, his brows and his scraggly moustache dark against the red of his furious cheeks. 

“I um, it’s—” 

“You know bloody well there are no mobile phones allowed when you’re on duty!” 

“I know, I’ll put it away, it’s just—” 

“No,” Alfrid held out his hand to silence Bard. “You won’t. You’re done for the day. Punch out and go home. I’ll talk to the Boss and if you’re lucky, we’ll call you to come in for your next shift.” 

Bard could do nothing but stare for a moment. “Pardon?” 

“Are you deaf as well as daft? Go home. Consider yourself suspended until further notice.” 

“But what am I supposed to—” 

“Not my problem, mate. Gather your things and leave. Now. Or I’ll call the Boss down and have you escorted out.” 

Bard stood there a moment, mouth hanging open like a fish, trying to think of something to say, to figure out how exactly things had escalated so quickly. Everyone had their mobiles on them at work. Alfrid was probably carrying his at that very moment! But the last thing Bard wanted was to cause a scene; suddenly he wanted nothing more than a stiff drink and to hide from the world beneath his duvet. He sighed. Alfrid wasn’t worth it— his pride wasn’t worth it, this job wasn’t worth it— none of it was. 

So he ran his hand through his knotted hair and turned to pull his coat from the line of hooks by the back door. He caught Tauriel’s surprised gaze and shot her an apologetic look. She pursed her lips and motioned that she’d call him later— with her knife still in her hand and waving dangerously close to her ear, no less.

Bard shrugged on his coat and turned in the direction of his flat. All the tension and all the fight had vanished, leaving his shoulders slouched and his steps sluggish. He stopped by a pub nearby but the taste of whiskey sat harsh and sour on his tongue. He nursed the drink for over an hour, swallowing bitterly. The sky was dark and the streets were nearly empty when he finally stepped outside. 

The sound of his mobile ringing sent a jolt of panic straight through Bard’s stomach, but it turned out to only be Tauriel. She spoke frantically: Alfrid had apparently stepped up and pitched in after Bard had been sent home, though he’d done a piss poor job of taking care of the remaining tables. Then he’d declared himself exhausted and gone home early, leaving Tauriel alone to do all the cleanup. 

“Slimy twit,” she spat, but Bard had neither the energy to agree nor the inclination to argue, and so he said nothing. He listened silently as he climbed up the stairs to his flat, only to stop short on the last step. 

“Bard?” Tauriel had apparently asked him a question, but he hadn’t heard. He didn’t hear anything else she said either, because Thranduil was standing in the middle of Bard’s hallway, looking completely put together even with his suit jacket hanging open and his collar unbuttoned. His hair was radiant even under the dim fluorescent lights. He turned towards Bard, fixing him with a look that would have set his heart to race even if he hadn’t spent the week ignoring the man’s calls. 

“Tauriel I have to go,” Bard gulped and disconnected the call even as Tauriel began to protest. 

“Glad to see your mobile is working,” Thranduil’s voice was clipped and his expression was dangerous. Beautiful, but dangerous. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to get back to you, I—” 

“You’ve been avoiding me.” 

“That’s not—” 

“No? Then tell me what it is you’ve been doing that is so riveting that you couldn’t spare a moment to answer a call.” 

“I wasn’t sure how to tell you—” 

“Tell me what?” 

“Fucking hell, will anybody just let me finish a goddamn sentence today? Christ! I’ve been avoiding your calls because I didn’t know how to tell you that I can’t… I can’t show at the Lasgalen.” 

“And why not?” Thranduil crossed his arms over his chest, his frown deep enough to unsettle even the most unflappable of men.

“ _Because!_ ” Bard pleaded, all his frustration and embarrassment coming to a head and swelling tight in his throat. “I can’t paint anything!” 

“Oi!” The door at the end of the hall creaked open and old Mister Titus hobbled out with his walker. “Keep it down, will you! EastEnders is on and I can’t hear the tele with you lot having a bloody domestic in the middle of the hall!” 

Bard sighed, mobile clutched tightly in one hand, keys jagged and sharp in the other. He stalked to his front door and turned the key, waving Thranduil inside. He looked about as out of place as could be surrounded by the mediocrity of Bard's life. 

“Would you like a cuppa tea or… biscuits?” 

“No, thank you.” 

Just as well; Bard wasn’t sure he had any biscuits. Instead he excused himself to use the loo. It was the whiskey he'd drunk, he told himself, and certainly not an excuse to give himself a moment away from Thranduil.

Bloody art dealers and their perfect bloody faces, asking him to paint and ruining his life. Bard had been happy before this. Well, perhaps not happy, exactly, but he’d kept his head down. Nothing great was expected of him and so he never disappointed anybody; himself included. Now he washed his hands and flicked them dry— he hadn’t done laundry in over a week— and steeled himself for the disappointment he was sure to bring upon himself now.

It was no use, in the end. When Bard stepped out of the washroom he found Thranduil in the living room, standing in front of the sofa, his chin perched on his fist. “I thought you said you couldn’t paint anything?”

Bard was confused for a moment until he realized Thranduil must have found the canvases that had been stacked against the wall. The blood rushed from Bard’s face, leaving him dizzy and nauseous as he crossed the room to see his suspicions confirmed. The portraits were propped up beside each other, all four of them lined up against the back of the sofa.

Bard could barely stand to look. “I suppose nothing _decent_ would have been a more accurate statement."

“When I asked you to create something new, I didn’t expect you would choose _me_ as your subject,” Bard tensed, anticipating anger, but was surprised by the modicum of humour in Thranduil’s voice.  “I can’t show these,” he stated. 

“I know,” Blood surged back into Bard's cheeks, his skin burning furiously as he stuttered. “I’m sorry. It’s awful and it’s embarrassing and it’s completely inappropriate. Honestly, I don’t know what came over me." 

Silence filled the flat for a moment. Thranduil studied the paintings with an unreadable expression. Bard studied Thranduil. 

“It’s been eight years since I made anything. It was kind of you to compliment my old work, but I think we both knew it was a lot to expect that I could do it again.” Thranduil let his hands fall to his side and focused his critical gaze on Bard.

“My life was good, y’know? Before… well I’m sure you know all about it. I didn’t have much, but I was _happy_. And then one night it was all just _gone_. And now I’m living like… _like this_!” Bard waved his hands around his flat frantically. "I try to tell myself I've moved on, that I'm fine, that I'm content, but I'm not.”

Bard’s eyes travelled to the row of paintings on the sofa. Each one was slightly better than the one that came before, though the evolution was subtle, at best. Thranduil’s profile. Thranduil’s smirk casting soft shadows over his cheeks. Thranduil’s hair tucked behind his ear and glowing in the diffuse morning light. Thranduil with his eyes downcast and his mouth soft. Bard closed his eyes against the shame that stoked the heat of his blushing cheeks.

“And then I sat down for coffee with you and I felt like maybe I didn’t have to be miserable anymore. You made me think I could do it, and then all I could paint was you. _You,_ with your fucking scarf and your hair and your smirking bloody face. I can’t get you out of my head!” Thranduil was studying him still, his eyes wide and his lips parted slightly. 

“And now!” Bard laughed. “Now I might be losing my job. The only thing holding my life together, the only decent thing I’ve got going for me is in jeopardy. And it’s crazy, right? To think that I could be happy again? That I could get any of my old life back just by painting a couple of—” 

“Bard,” Thranduil stepped forward, away from the sofa and into Bard’s personal space. He watched Bard for a moment, eyes shifting between surprise and confusion and something else Bard couldn’t name. “It’s not crazy.”

Then Thranduil’s lips were covering his mouth, soft and light and putting an end to Bard’s ranting. The fine threads of Thranduil’s hair fell over his shoulder to brush Bard’s cheek and suddenly, he couldn’t keep himself from touching. He reached up to trace the line of Thranduil’s jaw and scratch at the skin of his scalp. He wound his arm around Thranduil’s waist, felt the shift of his muscles through the layers of fine fabric. 

Thranduil’s hands were on him and around him, clutching and clawing at his wrinkled work shirt with enough force to pull it from the waistband of his trousers. Bard pushed the jacket from Thranduil’s shoulders as nimble fingers began to work on the buttons of his shirt. Bard’s own hands were trembling as Thranduil’s jacket fell to the floor and he was faced with a row of buttons of his own. 

Bard arched against him as Thranduil’s hands found the bare skin beneath his shirt and pulled him close. Thranduil’s tongue prodded Bard’s mouth, making his head swim He abandoned Thranduil’s buttons in favour of sliding his hands through his hair again, needy growls and desperate whimpers echoing behind his teeth. 

Bard stumbled as Thranduil maneuvered him across the floor, tripping over nothing and falling backwards onto the sofa. Thranduil followed close behind, landing on Bard’s chest with a grunt. The paintings toppled over, tipping onto their legs and landing across Thranduil’s shoulders. Bard brushed aside the canvas that knocked him in the forehead, not caring where it landed. 

“Careful, with those” Thranduil mumbled.

“Why?” Bard panted, watching as Thranduil twisted to pick up the remaining portraits and place them on the floor.

“Because you stand to make a lot of money off of them.” 

“But you said yourself—” 

“I said I couldn’t show them at the gallery. And I can’t. But I have a buyer in mind if you’re willing to part with them.” 

“You’re joking,” Bard stared, wide eyed, as Thranduil’s red lips twisted into a gentle smile. He watched as Thranduil leaned forward, letting his hair spill around them like a waterfall. He lay in shock as Thranduil’s fingers dove between the knots in his hair and urged him to tip his chin up. He let his eyes fall closed as Thranduil kissed him, pressing his tongue between Bard’s parted lips.

Heat radiated across his skin and Bard arched his back, his head light with the smell of expensive cologne and his mouth filled with the soft burn of peppermint. His heart raced. Their ragged breath and rustling clothes were the only sounds to pierce the roar of his pulse in his ears. He sought out the buttons on Thranduil’s shirt and pushed it aside to find the skin over his ribs and his sides and the ridges of his spine. 

Thranduil began to pull at his belt while Bard’s hands travelled the long length of Thranduil’s back. He was hard already and aching, on the verge of screaming, ready to beg for more. He palmed the curve of Thranduil's arse beneath the fitted fabric of his trousers, tugging him downwards and arching up to find he wasn’t the only one so easily affected. 

A deep moan broke their lips apart as Thranduil ground his hips downward. Bard urged them onward, prying open Thranduil’s belt, fighting to pull down his trousers, dipping his hands inside and teasing along the way. Thranduil was still for a moment, his breath hot against Bard’s mouth and his nails biting into the flesh of Bard's arms. He seemed to come back to himself once his trousers and pants had been flung from his legs, and returned his trembling fingers to their task of working open Bard’s fly.

Bard reached for his wallet in his back pocket, shamelessly arching upwards agin, dragging Thranduil’s bare cock against the worn fabric of his pants and drinking in the resulting moan. He smirked and flipped open the wallet, pulling a condom from between a couple quid. 

“You can’t be serious,” Thranduil laughed breathily. “People actually do that?”

“Are you complaining?” Bard smirked and tore the foil open. “Would you rather run to the market on the corner?” 

“God, no.”

Bard smirked and took Thranduil’s cock in hand, drinking in the way it made Thranduil's chest flush red as he rolled the condom down his length. Thranduil’s hands dove for Bard’s waistband, pulling his trousers and his pants down and leaving Bard to kick them free. The air was cold against his chest as Thranduil knelt above him, leaving him with one last kiss and the tickle of his hair as he began to lick at the skin of Bard's hips.

Bard leaned up to watch Thranduil gather his hair over one shoulder and dip down to tease the head of Bard’s cock. “Fuck,” he groaned as Thranduil began with slow, pointed licks. It seemed like forever that Bard lay there with Thranduil’s mouth so close, the fog of his breath spreading over his skin. It could have gone on for hours, but Bard became impatient. He reached down and pried the fingers of Thranduil’s left hand away from his hips, drawing them up his chest and towards his waiting mouth.

He could feel Thranduil’s breath stutter when he closed his lips around the first two digits; could hear the hot sounds of a moan when he began to suck and spread the fingers with his tongue. Thranduil had abandoned his teasing; he was watching him now, his gaze reflecting the heat of Bard's own lust.

He let Thranduil’s fingers go and guided his hand down, past Thranduil’s chin and between his legs, hissing as they found his sensitive hole. Thranduil needed no further direction; he pressed against the ring of muscle, his finger finding its way inside a

Bard’s head fell back against the arm of the sofa. 

Thranduil's movements were slow— agonizing, magnificent and torturous. Bard whimpered and whined and when he finally felt himself begin to relax, Thranduil breeched him with a second finger. He began to tease again, his tongue licking long stripes along the length of him. And then— then— he finally took Bard into his mouth, diving down in a single smooth motion, swallowing around his girth and stretching his hole with three nimble fingers. 

Bard’s mouth was open but no words came; his breath was shallow and jagged but he felt as though he might suffocate, his whole awareness reduced to _Thranduil_. “Please,” He begged when he’d finally caught his breath enough to speak. “Oh fuck, please.” 

Thranduil spread his fingers experimentally along Bard’s stretched rim before removing them altogether; he gave one last suck before abandoning Bard’s cock, leaving the sweat to cool his heated flesh. Though Bard wasn’t sure what he wanted when he asked, he was fairly sure _that_ wasn't it.

No, nevermind— that was definitely it. The head of Thranduil’s cock pressed against him, blunt and wide and stretching deliciously. Bard’s hands were shaking when they found Thranduil's shoulders, the sharp ends of his nails pressing white crescents into his skin. 

This was definitely not how he'd envisioned this day going. Thoughts of his failed art and his lost job were far from his mind, replaced by the way Thranduil's hips fit so snugly between his legs, how his cock filled him up so perfectly, how he moved _so slowly_. Thranduil was liable to kill him, sinking inside centimetre by aching centimetre, burning and relentless. Bard's thoughts were scattered, his breath racing harsh in his throat and his skin prickling.

"Shhh," Thranduil hummed, his face suddenly very close, eyes smouldering and lidded low. Bard wasn't aware he'd said anything, but he was rambling still, his voice reduced to a whimper when Thranduil kissed him. Bard was like putty beneath him, lips open and loose, body reacting to every touch, every movement, heeding every word and greedily swallowing every bit of him he could take.

He opened his eyes to see Thranduil's brow creased, his eyes closed in concentration and his hair falling into his face. Bard reached up to smooth it away, wondering how anything in this world could be so soft, so bright. Thranduil opened his eyes— the most radiant shade of ice blue— and began to move. 

He held Bard's gaze as he withdrew his hips, but closed his eyes again when Bard's hands made their way to grip his arse. Every last one of Bard's nerves were frayed, sparking with heat as he opened around Thranduil again. 

Bard sabotaged the steady pace Thranduil tried to set, urging him faster with his hands and scraping his nails along his ribs. He spread his legs wider and dug his heels into Thranduil's thighs, arched his back and squeezed around Thranduil's cock, urging him to drive faster, deeper.

And Thranduil did. He moaned and dropped his forehead against Bard's shoulder, driving into him wildly as Bard held on tight, a string of words turned to nonsense as he panted and gasped. 

"Fuck," Bard whined. He was overwhelmed, overstimulated and overcome. Thranduil was inside him, buried deep and hot. Every cell in his body was on edge, precisely attuned and aching for this man, this _perfect_ bloody man who'd proven wrong everything Bard thought was true about himself and his life. He would paint Thranduil's portrait every day as long as he lived if this was the result. 

He felt light, unburdened, awake and _alive_ like he hadn't been in years. He gave himself over to the feeling, the pleasure spreading along his skin and coiling in his groin. He cried out as he came, mouth pressed to the sweaty column of Thranduil's neck, body tense and shaking, mind blissfully blank. 

He was still trembling when Thranduil came, muscles weak and aching from the exertion. Thranduil was heavy atop him, boneless and still buried inside him as they both breathed each other's air. Bard thought he could stay this way forever and be completely content. 

Emptiness clawed at the pit of his stomach when Thranduil stirred and slipped out of him. The chill of his flat settled around him when Thranduil stood, leaving him to lie on the cushions, covered in lewd smears of drying spit and his own semen. 

"I think," Thranduil's voice was still unsteady and he paused to catch his breath. "I think I'll have that tea now, if you don't mind." 

Bard laughed, but he didn't mind. It just took him a while to pull himself up off the sofa.

{ }

It was sometime during the night when Bard woke. The flat was dark and his bed was warm, but he was drawn forward, out of the bedroom and into the living room like a puppet on a string. He stumbled into a pair of sweatpants, turned on the lamp by his desk and pulled on the jumper that hung over the chair. He moved as though through fog, picking up his last empty canvas from its place on the floor and squeezing fresh paint from the crinkled tubes. 

A dream hung on the periphery of his thoughts— a nightmare— old enough to be forgotten, but crisp enough to feel real, even after so many years. 

Silence had hung over his old cottage, the chill of early winter seeping through the old walls and leaving swirls of frost on the windows. It had been quiet— so quiet he'd imagined he might have been the only person left in the town. 

The thought churned his stomach now, but not with the same intensity it had for years afterwards. He looked back with a sort of detachment as he began to paint, the darkness of his flat reaching for him from beyond edges of the lamplight.

The sound had started off small and far away, growing steadily as he'd lain in bed, eyes open to the pitch black of the night. Then came the smell of smoke— wood fire— a familiar scent that had edged its way into Bard's consciousness before he could realize it was out of place in the dead of night.

He'd torn the duvet from his shoulders and leapt out of bed. The floor had been cold against his bare feet but the air in the cottage had already grown warm with the proximity of the fire. 

There was nothing he could have done— not really, not in time. Bard knew this, told himself over and over that he was not to blame, but it did nothing to lessen the weight of guilt that had settled in his bones. 

His family had lived in that town, his friends; his whole life was there and they were all gone by the time the flames had begun to paint shadows over the wall of Bard's bedroom. 

He'd burst from his cottage at a sprint, but he'd been driven backwards by the fire that had crept along the pier. There had been nowhere for him to go— the flames had jumped from a neighbouring house and begun to eat away at his home. There was no time to go back for anything— no time to call for help— and who could he have called? Everyone and everything was gone. 

He'd jumped into the lake just as the pier had begun to collapse beneath him. The water had been like ice, harsh and paralyzing, stealing the air from his lungs and making him ache for the warmth of the fire. 

Folks had been known to die this way. People would fall into the water during winter and never be seen again. Bard was sure he'd meet the same fate; ever since he was a boy his parents had taught him to be wary of his steps, scolding him for playing and running along the length of the narrow piers. Now those same planks of wood floated along behind him, even as the fire consumed them. 

How ironic it would have been for him to freeze while his home town burned. There had been moments throughout the following years when Bard would wish he had. 

Now he sat at his desk, bathed in the weak warmth of lamplight. He didn't try to mitigate the memories as they came back to him. 

He painted until the sun began to peak above the windowsill, until the light pressure of a hand on his shoulder snapped him from his reverie. 

"Have you been up all night?" Thranduil's voice broke the early morning silence. 

"A couple of hours," Bard replied. The sound of his voice seemed to pull him back to the present, to solidify the world around him. Thranduil was naked, the soft plush of Bard's duvet wrapped around his long body as he leaned over Bard's shoulder. His hair caught the pink glow of the sunrise. His skin was soft and radiating warmth that drew Bard forward, as though he were still freezing in the unforgiving waters of the lake. 

"This… this is beautiful," Bard shook his thoughts away and tore his eyes away from the motion of his adam's apple as he spoke. Bard followed Thranduil's line of sight to the painting that sat on his desk. He nearly recoiled at the sight of it. 

There was his cottage, the view captured from the far shore of the lake— the view he'd had when he'd clawed his way onto the icy riverbank. His cottage— his home. It was still burning, its roof was gone and the walls were gaping, screaming in the violent night. 

_Beautiful._ How could anything so devastating be considered beautiful? But one look at Thranduil and Bard knew he hadn't meant any harm. 

"Are you alright?" 

Bard was shaking, he realized as Thranduil's warm hand clasped around his. He dropped his paintbrush and pushed away from the desk, grateful for the way Thranduil crowded in close and obscured his view. 

"Come on," Thranduil murmured. "Come back to bed." 

Bard said nothing as Thranduil helped him to his feet, followed silently as he was led across the flat and into the bedroom. He breathed deeply as Thranduil stripped him of his sweats and his jumper. He fell bonelessly into bed as Thranduil drew him close inside the duvet, chasing away all Bard's worries and leaving all his painful memories behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil never had a buyer in mind for Bard's portraits of him: he intended to buy them all himself.  
> Bard sells all the paintings he shows at the Lasgalen, but he keeps "Fire on the Lake" for himself.  
> He quits his job at the restaurant and goes on to enjoy a relatively successful career with Thranduil as his partner.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com). feel free to come say hi!


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